Held Back
by Walnutpipes
Summary: Sherlock had been acting more manic than usual until one night he disappears. Now John has to go find him and hope its not too late. Will Sherlock and John discover how they feel toward each other?
1. Looking for Sherlock

John had been worried about Sherlock. For the past few days he had been acting funny. He kept dropping his petri dishes, beakers, and other various items he's been using for his experiments. He kept pacing, growling, all fraught with long sighs and silent exclamations. Something was bothering Sherlock.

One night after John went to bed he heard a loud crash and rushed down stairs in time to see Sherlock crash out the door leaving behind a shattered beaker with its contents soaking into the floor.

Sighing, John cleaned it up silently wondering what was wrong. Anyway, Sherlock will be back, he's probably just hungry or going to the morgue to use his riding crop. God that sounded bad John thought.

The next morning and into the day Sherlock did not return. It was that evening John was worried. He hadn't heard anything from Sherlock. He picked up his mobil and called Lestrade. No, he hadn't seen him either but said he would pass it on to his men to keep an eye out.

The next morning Sherlock still wasn't home. Now John was really worried. Where was Sherlock? John called into the office and told him he wouldn't be in and to reschedule all his appointments. He pulled on a jumper and shrugged into his coat and out the door in search of his friend.

All morning and into the afternoon he walked till it dusk. John was almost ready to call Mycroft when he thought of one thing. What if Sherlock was using drugs again. What if he overdosed. With that thought John panicked. He ran till he got to the East End and found one of the people in Sherlock's "network". "Where was Sherlock? Have you seen him? Has anyone seen him?" "No." Still panicked John found another of Sherlock's people. "Where was Sherlock? Have you seen him? Has anyone seen him?" "No." John was on the verge of a PTSD attack. No not again! Please no, not again! I can't handle this! John fingered his Browning. Feeling it's presence comforted him. At least it was always there for him, always waiting like a lost lover. NO, John thought. Sherlock is still out here somewhere, I just have to find him.


	2. Sherlock Found

In the distance John saw an old warehouse. Wondering, could Sherlock be there?

As he got close he noticed people gathered around old drums with fires in them trying to ward off the wind from the Thames. It was cold and biting, not one you wanted to be out in. There were some people just laying against the walls of the buildings, others, walking and talking to them selves. This must be a "crash house".

John didn't want to be noticed so he doubled back around staying along the fence and overgrown scrub. He remembered in Afghanistan doing many patrols like this. The insurgents like to use old run down warehouses to stock pile weapons or even meet and discuss their next ambush. There was always more that one way than a door to get in and he was looking just for that.

He saw a small hole where the siding was pulled back. Judging from its looks, it had been used before either as a way to get in or a bolt hole to get out. John was easily able to slip through.

Once he was through, he quickly bolted behind a beam and peered a look around. Nothing and no one were to be seen. Beam to beam he weaved in and out looking for Sherlock to no avail. Where was he?

Abruptly John head a door slam shut and two people talking. Their voices loud and slurred. "Did you see that guy up there? He's all dressed in a suit. Looks expensive and he's been there for days. Wonder if he has anything on him? Maybe he's got some money." "Or a nice watch we could trade for a hit or the like", the other man murmured.

John knew they were talking about Sherlock. He silently followed them. Room after room they past. All were large spaces where items had been stack and stored till shipping time. It was a few rooms later that they stopped and turned. John waited till he didn't hear their footsteps and followed. What he saw stunned him. He was a room half as big as a football field and all strewn about were people. Many were just laying on the floor, some were sitting up against the walls, others were huddled around each other for warmth. So many people, he had no idea this ever existed. It looked like a refugee camp.

John saw a corner full of stacked chairs, garbage, mattress, and boxes. Its there he ran and hid. It offered a good look of the whole room. From there he watched the two men as they purposely walked to a far corner to a person laying on a mattress against the wall under a broken window. Poor bloke John though. Theres no way you could be warm, probably dead. But that's exactly were the two men went.

John saw Sherlock's prone form laying on the mattress from where he hid. Instant fear gripped him as he wanted to rush over to see him, to touch him, to even see if he was still alive. John could just see his wavy hair and his razor cheekbones. John would know those anywhere so etched in his mind. Remembering the time at the factory on the Hound of Bakskerville case when Sherlock swung on his coat and flipped his collar up. "You being all mysterious with your cheekbones and turning your collar up so you look cool". John's misted eyes cleared instantly when the two men were closing in on Sherlock.

"Oi! Who are you and what do you want" John heard from behind. It was a gravely voice on that had seen too many rough years on the streets. John turned and looked the man in the eyes. His first assumptions were right, too many years on the streets. The mans face was weather worn, wrinkles around the eyes where they had squinted against the wind from the Thames. He was lean and rough and stubbly from living on the streets lucky to have found food where he could. His greying hair, stringy from oil and neglect spilled over his eyes, his deep steely blue eyes that pierced him. He asked again, "Who are you and what do you want?". John grunted and thumbed toward Sherlock. "Him" he said. The man replied, "He's nothing. He's been laying there for days. He's been mumbling and scream to himself all that time. He must have gotten some bad stuff." John felt his gut drop and go cold.

He glanced over his shoulder in time to see one of the men leaning over Sherlock. The man picked up Sherlock's arm and rolled him over proceeding to go through his clothes. Finding nothing the man snorted and gave a Sherlock a kick, turned, and walked away.

John was instantly ready to beat the man within an inch of his life for touching and kicking Sherlock. No one touches Sherlock, no one but him. Both men shrugged and as they walked away John heard them say, "Someone's already beat us to the body".

The man beside him grunted, "Looks dead to me." "Now I got to find me some boys to haul him to the river before he stinks up the place."

John didn't hear the last words as he bolted across the room, not even careful to step over the piles of people sleeping off their latest kick.

When he reached Sherlock, John was cold with fear. He fell beside him afraid to touch him, afraid of what he'd find. As he reached out his hand a tear rolled down his cheek. No, god no. Don't be dead, he thought to himself. When he softly touched Sherlock's cheek John barely heard a soft moan from Sherlock's throat. A sob escaped John's lips. He softly caressed Sherlock's cheek and touched his hair. Oh Sherlock, he thought. What have you done?


	3. Getting Sherlock Home

Getting Sherlock Home

John reached out grasping Sherlock's wrist. His pulse was there, it was fluttery and weak. Probably dehydration. John had no idea how long Sherlock had been laying there, probably days. It must have been a bad drug, or just too much.

"Why did you do this? Oh Sherlock", he muttered, and pulled him into his arms.

John had to figure out how to get Sherlock back to the flat, but who could he ask? Mycroft, no, not like this. His brother would take full advantage of the situation and do something to Sherlock, to hold over his head, blackmail.

Who could he get?

Molly? No, she couldn't lift him, but she could do some blood work to see just how bad it was.

Lestrade? But he was with the Yard. Would he come as a DI and overlook his surroundings. Would he come as a friend?

John gambled that he would come as a friend, there could be no other way.

He fumbled with his mobil. He found Lestrad's number on his contact list. It rang for what seemed forever, right before John's frustration got to its boiling point and he flung his mobil across the room, Lestrade answered.

"Greg, please." he begged. "Please I need your help." John struggling to get the words out without his voice breaking. "I need you to help me with Sherlock. He's… he's overdosed or something…. "

There was no pause on the other side of the line, "Where are you"?

"At the docks. There is an abandoned warehouse, grey, two stories tall. Greg, its a drug house, there are lots of people here, and I'm sure dealers, and others. You can't come as DI. Please. Your the only personI can think of that's trust worthy… a friend."

"I'm on my way" and the line went dead.

John then text Lestrade as much information on their location and where they were in the building hoping that Lestrade could figure it out and get there soon.

John cradled Sherlock's head in his lap waiting for Greg to arrive. Rocking Sherlock back and forth as he softly caressed his friend's face, his cheekbones, his forehead. He ran his thumb across Sherlock's lips, soft as they were, but cracked, probably due from lack of water.

"I have help coming. It'll be here soon. Just hold on Sherlock, hold on".

John was caressing Sherlock's hair, when a tear dropped on Sherlock's face. With the splatter of John's tear, Sherlock's eyes fluttered open. His eyes were unfocused and dilated, You could still see their mysterious green blue color. John could look into Sherlock's eyes forever, lost, yet safe, something stirred in John chest.

"John." Sherlock whispered, raspy and barely audible to a point that only John could hear him. "John… I'm so sorry. Please forgive me." A tear formed in the corner of Sherlock's eye and slowly rolled down his temple and into his hair.

Sherlock slowly raised a shaky hand, and touched John's face, brushing a tear away, and brought his wet fingers to his lips and kissed it, then gently lowering his hand onto John's when it rested, then his eyes fluttered shut.

John watched Sherlock's eyes close with another tear of his own forming. He didn't move his hand except to turn and grasp Sherlock's, and twine their fingers together, and held tight. He wasn't letting go. He was not going to loose Sherlock again. He was going to hold Sherlock back from death. There was no way death was going to pull Sherlock down, not with John holding him. The image of John's Browning flashed in his mind. If Sherlock went with death John was going with him. They were not being separated again.

Thats how Greg found them. Sherlock's head in John lap with John caressing Sherlocks hair, and their hands clasped tightly together.

John looked up at Greg. His face smeared with the tears and dirt that had smeared and rolled down his cheeks. You could see where they had fallen and gathered on his shirt… and on Sherlock's too.

"Help me Greg, help me. Help us." and another tear rolled down his face. "I can't loose him again. Please, not again".

Greg saw the desperation in John's face.

"Its ok John. We'll get him out of here." he said looking around. "My car is right outside. Molly's here too. She brought a fully stocked med kit. She's also has a blood kit. She'll take samples, drop her back off at the lab, and get Sherlock home. She'll do a full work up to see what's in him. By the time we get you and Sherlock to the flat she should have the full results."

John shook his head dumbly in acknowledgment. He stood up and gently placed his arm across Sherlock's back and draping Sherlock's arm around and behind John's neck, down across his chest where he held it close. Greg did the same and they hoisted Sherlock up between them.

"Oi!" they heard a shout across the room. "Where you taking him?"

It was the man John had talked to. The one who wanted to throw Sherlock in the river when he thought he was just a worthless body. Now seeing that Sherlock was indeed alive. He had other plans.

"He's gotta pay. These fine beds aren't for free ya know."

John's eyes grew cold as death. You could say John was death himself. He looked directly at the man, straight down into his black soul. He shifted Sherlock to Greg and removed his hand from Sherlock. Greg took on, and braced more of Sherlock's weight so John could stand and move unfettered John straightened and stood hard. He was now in soldier mode. He slowly reached around to his back, and pulled the Browning out of his waistband and clicked the safety off. You could hear the sound clearly, and it pierced the man's brain with fear, like ice. Fear was flooding into his eyes. John just held the Browning at his side. Death now shining in his eyes. He was ready to strike.

"Easy mate. It just business fair and square.", said the man, as he was backing away. His empty hands rising into the air. John was raising the gun directly to the mans face and stepped forward. The man was now shaking, spittle forming and gathering at the corners of his mouth. He eyes widening even larger. He moved backwards, faster now, tripping and tumbling over bodies as the turned and ran.

John slowly placing his gun back into his waistband, this time, in the front where all could see. His eyes still cold as death. He turned and looked at Greg. "There'll be no more trouble. If there is, they are dead."

"Christ" he heard from under Greg's breath. Greg had never seen this side of John. It was a side he'd never want be up against. It indeed was death. He also knew John would have no qualms on pulling the trigger on anyone no matter who they were, or tried to stop them. More to the point, between John and Sherlock.

For just a second he heard Sherlock's words describing how the taxi driver was shot by a mysterious gunman from the case A Study in Pink.

"Your looking for a crack shot, but not just a marksman. His hands musn't have shaken at all, so clearly he's acclimatized to violence. He didn't fire until I was in immediate danger, so obviously moral principal. You're looking for someone probably with a history of military service and nerves of steel" Greg now knew Sherlock had been identifying John.

They got Sherlock out to the car with no further incident. Molly unlocked the doors and rushed to help John and Greg get Sherlock in the back of the car. Once in, she climbed in and slammed the door shut. John raced to the other side, got in, where he and Molly sandwiched Sherlock between them. Greg was already in the drivers seat, jamming the car into drive, and sped off.

Molly got Sherlock's arm bare and jabbed the needle in drawing vile after vile of blood. That's when Molly looked up at John, and John looked down at Sherlock's arm. The needle tracks were visible as was the bruising. How many were there? Molly quickly pulled up the other sleeve, there were more.

"How much did he do?" she mumbled to herself.

When Sherlock felt the needle stab he lurched and began to thrash. John pulled his friend to his chest and held tight. "Sherlock its ok! We got you. Its ok. Its ok." and began to stroke his hair.

He pulled his friend head closer and began to mumble him his ear over and over, "Its ok, its ok. Its over. Your going home. We're taking you home.", and then a pause, "I love you Sherlock. I love you." All the while tears began again to roll down his face.

"John" Sherlock groaned. His name came out as a long groan. It originated deep in Sherlock's chest. It jolted John down to the depths and touched his soul making his heart jumped a beat. It may have been meant for John's ears only but it was just loud enough for all to heart. Sherlock's eyes fluttered open, and he reached up to John face. Molly glanced up and Greg looked back in the rear view mirror. John saw all this but was past caring. He didn't care anymore what people thought of his feeling toward Sherlock, he didn't care one bit.

Sherlock slowly, tenderly took John's hand and held it, then brought it to his cheek. John felt the wetness on his hand and pulled it back. Was it blood? No. It was Sherlock's own tears.

Sherlock pulled John hand back to him and placed it on his chest. He pressed it against his heart, enough that John felt Sherlock's heart beat. Its all John really felt. That, and the warmth of Sherlock's hand. It was then that John realized that their hearts were now beating together as one. With that, John buried his face in Sherlock's curls, and they both closed their eyes.

Greg whispered a prayer under his breath and reached under the dash where he flipped a switch and the sirens came on. His career and and his position as a DI be damned.


	4. Recovery

Greg helped John get Sherlock up the stairs, into the flat, and Sherlock's bedroom. He was heavy like dead weight. His head lolling from side to side mumbling apologies the entire time.

Mrs. Hutson followed up the stairs mumbling with worried words and tears in her eyes.

"Oh Sherlock", mumbled Mrs. Hutson over and over.

They laid Sherlock down on his bed and stepped back. A long drawn out breath escaped both of them.

"Think he'll be okay?" questioned Greg.

"I don't know. It all depends on what he injected himself with and how much. We'll know more when Molly calls." quietly replied John.

"In that case, I'll go find out if Molly got the results back yet or not." Greg said softly as he turned and went out of the room.

John went over to Sherlock and slowly starting removing his clothes. They were grimy, sweat stained, and stank. First were the shoes and socks, then John eased off the shirt, carefully ever so carefully over his head and pulled the sleeves off his arms. He unbuckled and pulled off his pants inwardly thinking that this is not the way he had fantasied about taking Sherlock's pants off.

John took the soapy hot water Mrs. Hutson brought up and with light touches baths Sherlock. With each gentle wipe of the wash cloth he felt for any bruises, cuts, or breaks. When he'd find one Sherlock would moan and like in slow motion flinch.

Greg came into the room and informed John that Molly had called with the blood test results. It was cocaine. Lots of cocaine. John knew that Sherlock had a habit of the drug but hadn't seen him use it or even found any hidden in the flat. When Sherlock spoke about it he remembered that he told him he used a 7% solution. However, by injecting it, it could be in a more concentrated form.

After a bit, Sherlock moaned, rolled his head and opened his eyes to look at John. Sherlock's eyes were clearing. His green/blue eyes gripped him. John felt himself falling into them, hoping to drowned in them. Yet Sherlock's eyes looked sad and pained.

"I couldn't help myself. Just once. Just this one time…" and his voice trailed off.

"Sherlock, I have to know, how much cocaine did you inject? Tell me!" asked John pleadingly.

Sherlock looked up into John's eyes confused and questioning.

"How?" Sherlock whispered.

"Molly was there. She and Greg helped me get out and home. She drew the blood and checked it at the lab. Sherlock, how much did you do?"

Sherlock just turned his head. He couldn't look John in the eyes. Shamed.

In Sherlock's mind John was fragile, broken on the inside. War had done that. John may have saved may soldiers, but lost some too. He had been on the lines with them. The depended on him. He was their guardian angle. So many times John he held their lives in his hands only to have them slip away. Sherlock had read John's service record. It was easy enough to get, one call to Mycroft. It seems John was in an ambush and they tried to fight their way out. He managed to pull many men to safety He would run right into the fire to rescue the ones pinned down not caring for his own safety. When they found John he was draped over one of the soldiers, one hand still holding on to the man's tourniquet the other pressing against a neck wound. The soldier was dead. There was blood soaked on the ground, the soldiers shirt, and all over John. John was as still as his comrade, they even thought he was dead too. However, there was just the slightest of breath. They didn't see John's wound at first. So much of the blood was from the other soldier. It was only back at the med unit that they discovered it when he was wheeled in on the stretcher. John never recovered from that battle.

It wasn't the battle that shattered him, it was loosing that one man. He had lost so many, that one man was all it took for his mind to cave in on its self. He was shipped home and given high honors for bravery in battle and saving the lives of so many men, and with a ceremony the medically retired him.

Later the PTSD was discovered. Any little pop, crack, or hurt individual, shattered John. It wasn't till he came into Sherlock's life that he calmed down. Almost "cured" it seemed. The dr.'s said it was like it just "disappeared". Sherlock knew better. He could see the cracks. They sometimes peaked out of John's eyes, his mannerisms, or his words. This made Sherlock worry. Not for himself, but for John. He read from the dr's reports that John was indeed suicidal. Sherlock would periodically go up into his room while he was sleeping to check on him. He loved watching the man sleep. His face was so peaceful. Sherlock would want to reach out and touch John's face. Just to brush his cheek, but he held back. He would be satisfied with just watching him breath.

Sherlock would never ever hurt John intentionally. It was just the opposite. If he could, he would take John in his arms and shield him from the world. Nothing would ever hurt John again. But this time, it was he who hurt John, and he would never ever forgive him self.

Sherlock turned back around. "John, I didn't want to hurt you. I didn't mean to hurt you. I am so sorry. Words can't even explain how sorry I am. I was a selfish bastard unable to control my 'urges'."

"Sherlock. I was right here. You could have asked me for help. I'd have done anything for you." With that, John laid down beside Sherlock. ….. gently pulling him against his chest and nuzzled into the back of his neck and closed his eyes.

"I'll always be right here. I'll always be here for you Sherlock."

Sherlock felt John's breath on his neck. His warmth pressing against his chest. But most importantly, John had his arm wrapped over his shoulder holding him tight, protective yet possessive. For the first time in a long time Sherlock's mind relaxed. The demons in his head quieted, and all he felt was safe and comforted. All he saw and heard in his head was John. His quiet presence dominated his mind and body.

Mrs. Hutson came up to check on Sherlock and to ask John if there was anything she could do. She halted at the doorway seeing Sherlock wrapped in John's embrace. She quietly turned from the room and a tear of sadness and relief formed as she descended the stairs back to her flat.

The drug wore off slowly through the night. Sherlock continued to struggle with the withdraw. John held him, whispering words of comfort.

There was no more holding back.

"I love you Sherlock. Don't ever forget that.". John whispered in Sherlock ear.

Sherlock reached up to John's hand resting him his chest and brought it up to his lips. "I love you too".

~Fin


End file.
